


( MILK )

by somepeoplearewild



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Genderswap, Peeping, Underage Sex, girl!Zayn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-12-26 11:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12057621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somepeoplearewild/pseuds/somepeoplearewild
Summary: "He watches me at his window."





	1. i

Zayn is by no means a harlot. A conniving little minx? Yes. Actively promiscuous? Not really. She's not _actively_  anything. She's more of a stay at home and lounge around kind of girl, and there aren't many opportunities to meet girls or boys while watching tv in her underwear.  
  
Her best friend is probably her thirteen-year-old sister, Corinne. Cory is a piece of work. A walking opinion. She'd state her case to a wall if it stopped to listen. Which is exactly what she's doing now at the end of Zayn's bed. She's ranting about Matthew from pre-AP biology who was talking shit about GMO products but didn't even know what GMO meant.  
  
"Corinne!" Zayn screams through a laugh after her sister so politely refers to the boy as a 'sister fucking banjo plucking hillbilly'.  
  
"Did I lie though?" Cory raises a thick, black eyebrow at her sister, and Zayn can't argue with her. She's in a class with his older brother James, and they're both stadium country music personified. Just straight douchebags. James had once so kindly referred to Zayn as an "Islam bitch" after she hadn't responded to his dm on Instagram the way that he'd wanted. On the other hand, she _had_ asked if his cousin would like to find out he'd been messaging other girls behind her back.  
  
It's not so much that Zayn's a bitch. Just that she derives joy from pissing people off…. Does that make her a bitch? She doesn't go around doing things to be an asshole, but if she sees an opportunity to roast someone, she'll take it. It's not like she's screaming shit at people in the middle of class. She's fairly reserved and level-headed. She likes to stay in her own world. It's your choice if you want to invade it and get your ass flamed.  
  
"And on another fucking note!" Corinne starts up, breaking Zayn out of her reflection. "That creep was staring at us again when we were walking up the driveway! I don't like him always standing at the window being a perv."  
  
"Corinne, it's not even that deep. Just ignore him if it bothers you."  
  
"How can you even say that?"  
  
"Because unlike you, I've actually spoken to him before. He's just a lonely old rich guy. Let him live out his trope in peace."  
  
"His trope? Bitch, he's a serial killer trying to get my junior high putang."  
  
"Okay, get out of my room!" Zayn yells, covering her hands with her ears. She'd like to avoid hearing about her sister's junior high putang at all costs.  
  
Zayn knows for a fact that's not what he wants. If he wanted her sister, he'd be staring into Corinne's bedroom window every night.  
  
Not hers.


	2. ii

"But I can't do it!" Zayn whines to her mother, throwing her face into her arms that are folded on the kitchen counter. She has about three laptops spread out around her, her Algebra 2 textbook pushed as far away as possible.  
  
Her mother stops chopping vegetables just long enough to give Zayn a scathing look. "I'm not doing it for you. I don't even know how to do it. Why don't you get a tutor?"  
  
"Tutors suck! Also I don't know anyone."  
  
"I've told you several times that Mr. Styles would be more than happy to help you and your sister with homework."  
  
"I'm not going into his house! He wants my junior high putang!"  
  
"Zayn Javadd Malik! Not in my house."  
  
"Mom."  
  
Her mother shakes her head at her daughter, returning to making her snack. And Zayn is back to square one with an incompetent math teacher and no one to help her.  
  
\+ + + +  
  
It's not until much later that Zayn finally retires to her room. She's been doing algebra so long it's like her brain can't stop thinking about it. She just keeps coming up with nonsensical formulas and trying solve them. She must be going insane.

She goes to her bathroom to shower and brush her teeth, gagging on her toothbrush as always. Her gag reflex is ridiculous sometimes. Brushing her tongue is her least favorite part.

She rinses off her rose face mask and dries her hair before clicking the light off in the bathroom.

"Fuckfuckfuck!" Zayn squeals quietly bolting out of the dark bathroom. She forgot to open the door before she turned out the light, and she's terrified of the dark.

She throws her towel over her desk chair, having already put on her undies in the bathroom. She's one of those weirdos who sleep naked, and she's not ashamed to admit it. Yes, she'll be screwed in an emergency, but the chances of an emergency are slim. The chances of her overheating and waking up with her clothes drenched and clinging to her are nearly one hundred percent. She's been described as a little radiator by her family who have been the subject of her sleep cuddling often.

The glowing clock on her wall reads six past midnight, which probably explains why her house is so quiet, even her sister having gone silent by then.

Zayn yawns and turns around to climb in bed, fully intent on sleeping through her first four alarms. She doesn't even scream, just feels her eyes widen comically as she makes eye contact with an equally mortified man in the window across from hers. She quickly covers her boobs, a raging blush spreading all the way down her chest and up her cheeks.

Zayn moves first, ducking straight down onto the floor in a panic. She thinks for a moment about what she's going to do. Yeah, she knows he watches her, but it doesn't make it any less humiliatingly awkward to catch him for the millionth time than it did for the first. She usually does a good job of avoiding his gaze with her sheer white curtains, but her mother had insisted they go to the dry cleaners because they hadn't been dusted in a year or two.

And now she's on her floor, crawling on all fours toward her bed before quickly hopping into it and under the covers. She lies there for a bit, staring at the glowing plastic stars on her ceiling with wide eyes. After a couple minutes, she dares to peak over the window sill to see the man has disappeared.

Thanks Jesus. At least he had the decency to look about half as horrified as she felt. Zayn turns her back to the window and wills herself to sleep, her mind piecing together equations once again.  
  
\+ + + +  
  
"I spoke to Mr. Styles on the phone last night."  
  
Zayn stops in her path to the icebox, turning to her mother with an incredulous look on her face, her heart momentarily stopped. "You did _what_?" Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

"He said he's free to tutor every afternoon, so I asked him if Tuesdays and Thursdays from four to seven were fine and he said yes. I want you to start walking straight to his house after school on those days, and don't leave until you've finished your work. Are we clear?"

Zayn just stands there, floundering. She waves her hands around in distress, unable to find her words. She looks to her sister for help, but Corinne just snorts with her mouth full of cheerios, leaning away from her bowl as sugary milk comes out of her nose. It's what she fucking gets for laughing.

"I said, are we clear?" her mother restates, raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows.

"No?!"

Her mother scowls at this. "I will take away your phone and television and laptop. Your grades are the most important thing right now. You will not squander the opportunities that I've worked so hard to provide to you." She points a shiny red nail at her daughter and narrows her eyes. "You will march your pretty little ass up to his house this afternoon and study until it falls off. _Are we understood_?"

Zayn breaks at the menacing tone her mother uses with her, shoulders sagging in defeat. "Yes, ma'am." Looks like she's going to Mr. Styles house this afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd post another chapter bc the first is kinda boring.
> 
>  
> 
> Also can I just add I've been laughing for a solid five minutes bc I read the first line of this chapter and thought "but Simon I can't dawnce"


	3. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone stop me before i post this whole story by friday. this is just a new writing style for me and i'm v excited and scared. pls comment and tell me if you like it or what i can improve 

Zayn's mother fiddles with the bright red ribbon tied around her curly ponytail. She always complains that Zayn's bows are floppy and flat, but does it honestly matter? Nevertheless, her mother reties the ribbon as they wait on the front step in front of the massive, cream-coloured Georgian style house.

 

It's a full minute before they hear several latches and locks come undone, which Zayn spends staring down at her mother's expensive leather heels. The woman is a walking fashion advert with her ironed skirts and frilly blouses that compliment her stick-slim figure. Zayn knows it's achieved by years of surgical procedures and strict dieting, but she can't help but feel a little envious as she's once again growing out of her clothes that only two months ago fit fine.

 

The door opens to reveal a man who is quite a bit taller than one would expect just by seeing him through windows and between the painted slats of the backyard fence. He's in what Zayn has observed to be his usual attire, crisp button up, meticulously creased slacks, and a god awful pair of loafers.

 

"Mr. Styles! We're so glad that you accepted our request!" her mom greets enthusiastically as he steps aside to let them in.

 

"It's no trouble to me," he replies politely, his voice much deeper than Zayn ever imagined— not that she's just sitting around imagining his voice! That would be...

Weird.

It's different than the last time Zayn spoke to him, but that was a long time ago when the melancholy house she's standing in was bustling with life. She had to have been eight or so, and he was a teenager. He wasn't very pleasant back then either.

 

"Well, I just came to escort Zayn over here. Sweetheart can be a bit obstinate. Had to make sure she actually showed up!" the woman laughs, earning a small, awkward smile from Mr. Styles.

 

"I would've come," Zayn grumbles, sitting on the edge of the suede sofa where Mr. Styles has motioned for her to sit. He sits at the other end, and Zayn isn't sure how he's going to help her from that far away, but whatever.

 

"I believe you," her mother replies without a hint of sincerity. "I'll let you two get to it. See you at seven!" With that, her mother clicks her way out of the house, the large wooden door shutting behind her.

 

It's kind of musky in the house, like vanilla cigars, but the house is very clean overall. It barely looks lived in, more like a picture from a furniture catalogue than anything. The polished mahogany floors look un-tread and the bookcases and shelves are surprisingly free from dust.

 

For some reason, she always imagined the house as some musty old lair with velvet upholstery and candelabras and cobwebs.

 

When Zayn finally stops observing her surroundings, her eyes come back to Mr. Styles, who is staring at her unnervingly. Zayn offers him a confused smile to which he narrows his eyes a little.

 

"Yes...?" Zayn questions, unsure of where the afternoon is headed. Maybe Cory was right, and he really is just a creep.

 

"Please, don't use your cellphone in my house."

 

Zayn notices her hand, which is tightly gripping her phone. Against her best judgement, she slips it into her shoulder bag before asking why.

 

"Because," he begins as if it's obvious, "We'll get nothing done. It's a distraction. Where are your books?"

 

Zayn pulls out her textbook and notebook and some pencils, but she hesitates before she sets them on the coffee table. In a moment of confidence and logic, she stands up and walks over a bit, sitting back down closer to the man so that their knees nearly touch. He's clearly unsettled by this as he holds his breath for a few seconds. His whole body is tensed up.

 

"You can't help me if you can't read what I'm doing."

 

He finally relaxes (a bit) and nods slowly, as if justifying her actions to himself in his head.

 

Zayn opens up to the questions she's been stuck on. She had circled them in the book before sadly turning in her half finished homework. Usually, she's really good at math, but AP chemistry has been taking up her energy and will to live lately. She's balls at chemistry so she thought that prioritising her studies would work better than getting a C in both classes. It isn't. She has a C in maths and a B that's almost a C in chemistry.

 

"Oh, this is simple," he says instantly, earning a _look_  from Zayn. "Well it is," he says in response to her glare, not backing down or apologising like she thought he would.

 

"First of all, you should be explicitly writing down all of the steps."

 

"Minus fucking eight on both goddamn sides," she says as she writes, laughing at her own joke which doesn't seem to amuse Mr. Styles. "Jesus, lighten up."

 

"We're here to work, not waste time."

 

"And I'm here until seven no matter what, so I'm sure a joke or two won't exhaust the full three hours."

 

"I'm doing you a favour," he reminds her to which she shrugs just to infuriate him.

 

"You're doing my mom a favour. You're giving me a headache."

 

Instead of gasping or yelling like she expected, he just smirks, malachite eyes sparkling in anticipation of his next words. "At least I passed high school algebra."

 

Zayn dies laughing then, a response _he_  didn't expect. "Okay, that's fair."

 

The two go back to work, Mr. Styles doing a surprisingly good job of demystifying the equations that had stumped her. It turns out, it really does help to write everything down even if her hand is cramping like a bitch by five thirty.

 

"I can't go on!" she shouts dramatically, falling back into the sofa cushions. She closes her eyes and flings her wrist over her forehead like a Victorian maiden.

 

She waits for a response— a grunt, a chuckle, _something_ — but when she gets nothing, she peeps her eye open. It was wishful thinking that she could ignore the looming fact that yes, this is the same man who peers into her bedroom window. He'd been fairly normal up to this point. However, now he's staring plainly at her lap, where her school skirt had ridden up a bit revealing just the very edge of her garter straps. They weren't anything sexy. Just simple black straps to hold up her sheer white school stockings. She'd realised early on at her private school what a pain it was to constantly pull up her socks all day. After she'd accidentally flashed her health teacher in sixth grade while wrestling with her books and stockings, she'd come home begging her mom for some fashion tape to keep her socks up, and the woman did her one better with a tiny little garter belt. At just twelve, she was already starting to fit her slim mother's clothes.

 

"Mr. Styles," she says, snapping him out of his trance-like state.

 

"Harry," he answers instantly, no hint of embarrassment or shame on his face. It's almost like the last 30 seconds never happened. When Zayn cocks her head, he follows up his statement. "My name is Harry. Mr. Styles is– was my father."

 

"Oh," Zayn says quietly, feeling a little awkward at the mention of his dead parents. She doesn't remember much about them. Just that his dad was hearty and round and his mother was slim with black hair, kind of like her own mom, but less.... uppity?

 

"Are you thirsty? Excuse my manners, I never offered you anything to drink. I'll be back." He doesn't even give her time to answer, just stands abruptly and rushes into the kitchen in long strides.

 

Zayn, against her good sense and understanding of social cues— i.e. don't follow people who are trying to get away from you— follows him to the kitchen where he's fumbling with two glasses.

 

He doesn't even look at her, just fills the glasses with ice from the freezer door. "I told you I'd be back."

 

"I wanted to see the kitchen. It's lovely." Dark grey granite counters and rich, red stained cabinets. There's a large, glass breakfast table to her left, a mosaic of multicoloured mirror shards cemented to the wall behind it. Everything is very sleek and dark and well decorated. She knows for a fact this isn't what the house used to look like. There were white painted walls and flowers in every corner. This version of the house is almost lifeless in its darkness and perfection... and emptiness.

 

"Thanks, I had no part in it. An interior designer did it."

 

"Not to be, like, intrusive, but can we take a little, tiny, itty bitty tour? You don't have to show me your sex dungeon or secret laboratory."

 

Harry cracks a small smile at this, handing her the glass before he turns around and heads up the stairwell that leads into the other side of the kitchen. "Follow me."

 

Zayn ooh's and ahh's at all of the rooms. There's a floor to ceiling library in one room, two guest rooms with the fluffiest carpet she's ever seen, and a huge bathroom connecting them.He stops to explain a painting before they get to the door at the end of the hall. Zayn can't help but study the dark hardwood, knowing that the room must be the master suite.

 

"Anyway," Harry says in a weird voice, clearly noticing Zayn's displaced attention. "The only thing left up here is my room." He opens it a little, intending for the little glimpse Zayn gets to be all, but she pushes the door open and wanders all the way in.

 

He has a dramatic-looking four poster bed with sheer black curtains, and several huge armoires. There's a desk in the corner with a laptop and a few trinkets, but what really catches her attention on the far side of the room is the window— or, more specifically, the view from his window. She can see directly into her room. Not like a little bit. She can see through both of the windows in her room, everything clear as day. She can even see the sticky notes on her desk and the pillows on her bed and the clothes on the floor. And that's only with the light from her nightlight in the corner.

 

"Well, fuck," Zayn states bluntly. "I've been putting on a show."

 

Harry coughs awkwardly, and she looks back at him.

 

"Like seriously, I'm so sorry. I thought you were just being a perv, but if I had the view you have, my nosy butt would be all over it."

 

"It's no problem," he coughs, picking up a remote on his beside table and pushing a button that draws the curtains clothes. "Let's head back down. There's still a lot of progress to be made on your homework."

 

Zayn allows him to usher her out of the room, throwing one last glance at the covered windows. She's never considered the fact that he can close his curtains at any time as well as she can. He just chooses not to.


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyy fuck me right I can't stop posting. It's a shortie

Zayn sighs, fetching her bag from the living room. It's been two months of tutoring, and honestly she's an expert now, far ahead of her classes in both Algebra 2 and chemistry. She's ready to just go home and jump off the balcony into the thorny rose bushes. It would hurt less than drawing one more molecule.

Zayn leans across the table to get her book, squeaking a little when she tries to stand back up and she can't. Something warm and rigid is blocking her. She peeks over her shoulder to find Marcel staring intently down at her back.

"What are you doing?" Zayn asks, playing the fool. She knows full well what he's doing, having read her fair share of raunchy romance novels and fanfiction.

He doesn't say anything, but her neck hurts to stay twisted so she turns back to look at the table. He stares at her for so long without moving so much as a muscle that she starts when she feels a hand travel up the back of her thigh. The touch is so slight and soft, it's almost a hover. The palm of his hand gently brushes the skin as it travels upward, her skirt bunching over his arm the higher he goes.

Suddenly, he grabs her thigh, thumb pressing into the crevice where her ass meets her leg. He squeezes the flesh and watches his fingertips sink into the soft muscle.

Zayn is so shocked she doesn't even move, just allows him to flip her skirt up onto her back, revealing her blue cheeky underwear and white garter straps. She can feel his gaze sweeping over her, biting her lip from shame and confusion when she feels herself clench uncontrollably, a familiar throb pulsing through her.

She's been horny before, loads of times, but she's always felt ashamed touching herself for some reason. It's not something she feels comfortable doing, knowing her mother and sister are just a wall away from her. It feels wrong so she doesn't do it.

So why does it feel good when this man drags his fingertips over her panties, not teasing her but feeling for himself?

Her cheeks are warm with embarrassment as her ass instinctively jerks backward into his touch, trapping his hand between her panties and the front of his slacks.

This action seems to snap him back to reality, Harry stumbling away from her as if he's been burned. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He flips her around, grabbing her by the shoulders as he continues to apologise profusely.

Zayn doesn't respond. Her root beer eyes are glazed over, cheeks flushed and lips swollen and wet from her biting and licking.

"Zayn?" he questions in a panicked voice, his whole life beginning to crumble around his stupid, rash actions. He should have never put his hands on a teenage girl like that.

"Why'd you stop?" Zayn frowns, her black eyebrows wrinkling adorably. Adorably because she's a fucking sixteen year old girl who has yet to lose the baby fat in her cheeks and the confusion in her voice.

Except it's not confusion. It's more like disappointment.

Harry gives her a hard look, still absolutely mortified. "What do you mean? Of course I had to stop. You're a child for Christ's sake!"

This little statement jerks Zayn out of her haze, the girl's features turning to stone in front of him as she pushes him away from her. "Yeah fucking right!" she snaps, not caring who hears them in this big empty house as she storms away into the living room and gathers her things into her bag haphazardly. "Now, I'm a child?" she laughs sarcastically, throwing pens and pencils and her calculator into her bag. "I'm a child when you touch me in your kitchen but not when you stand at your window and wait for me to undress?"

"Watch your fucking mouth," he growls at her, but she doesn't spare him a look, just throws the strap of her bag over her shoulder and runs out of his house. He tries to chase her but pauses at the door, knowing how it would look if he was chasing a teenage girl across her yard.

She smirks to herself as she marches across the lawn. She will not be the toy. The helpless little pawn in some pervert's game. He can't give and take as he pleases. She wants him to feel just an inkling of the humiliation she feels, and she knows exactly how to make it happen because she wasn't trying to tease him before, but now she is.


	5. v

Zayn stops by her house on Thursday before going to her meeting with Harry. She can feel him watching her, his eyes locked on her every movement as she unbuttons and discards her school shirt. She unzips her skirt and lets that fall to the floor as well before stepping out of her plain black heels. She pulls the fluffy red hairtie out of her hair, and stands there in her underwear, braiding her hair into two long pigtails. She secures them with little black bows at the end. Then, she goes to her closet and opens the side where she had stuffed all of her too-small clothes. There's a particular shirt she's looking for. It's not really a crop top, but it shows just her navel. It's a striking, velvety red to compliment her tan skin, but most importantly, it's about a size and a half too small for her boobs, and it's low cut. She never really wore it when she could fit it, partially because she felt uncomfortable with the way boys would stare at her at the mall but mostly because she's always home or at school so she had no reason to wear it.

She notices instantly the way she pops out of it when she turns to the mirror in her closet. Her chest has been undergoing the most drastic changes lately going from a 34C to a 34D in about six months, which is no surprise. Her mom has had two breast reductions to maintain her pixie figure.

She doesn't really feel comfortable with her stomach showing, so she chooses a rose patterned high waisted circle skirt to cover it. The skirt is also too small, but not by choice. Zayn really does need to buy new clothes, but for now she just deals with her too short skirts and doesn't even go near her jeans. She'd never get them buttoned.

She switches her white stockings for black ones and puts on her favorite suede kitten heels with the buckles. When she comes out of her closet, Marcel is no longer at the window so she applies a glassy coat of her cherry tinted lipgloss and grabs her book bag.

Zayn stops in her tracks as she grabs the doorknob, a devilish idea springing to mind.

••••

She rings the doorbell and waits the few seconds it takes for Harry to rip open the door, clearly annoyed. His expression goes blank as his eyes uncontrollably zero in on her cleavage. He tries to pass it off with a scoff, but Zayn will not be disheartened by his poor acting as she pushes past him into the house.

"You're thirty minutes late."

"I don't care."

"Don't get an attitude with me."

"I'll do what I please," Zayn purrs, opening her textbook to the correct page. She can't help her little smile as Harry stalks around her and angrily takes his seat next to her.

"Let's not forget you're a guest in my house. Don't be impolite."

Zayn stops and taps her pencil against her chin with a wondering look. "So back talk is impolite, but trapping me over a table and playing with my cunt is fine?" she says in a fake confused voice, revelling in the floored look on Harry’s face. He definitely didn't expect that one.

"Well?" she questions after a moment of silence.

"What I did was not okay, Zayn," he says, and she believes him, that he's sorry and understands he's in the wrong all that, but it's not what she wants to hear.

"What if I said it was okay?"

He stands up immediately, entirely shocked with the young girl in front of him. "We're not doing this."

"Why not? You're really good at teaching algebra. Imagine all the other things you could be teaching me."

Harry visibly swallows, putting even more distance between the two of them as he backs away to the staircase. "No."

"No?" Zayn mimics in her little innocent tone, cocking her head like a kitten. "I thought you wanted to fuck me. Isn't that what you think about when you watch me?"

The man doesn't say anything, just takes the stairs two at a time, but Zayn is hot on his trail, following him up to his room. The door is shut and locked by the time she gets there, so she just leans against the polished wood.

"Please come out," she teases in a little voice. "I got all pretty for you. Don't you like my bows?"

"Stop it," a feeble voice says from the other side of the door.

"Just say you want to fuck me, and I'll stop. Admit it, or better yet, do it."

"No."

"Fine, then."

Harry waits until he thinks the coast is clear and cracks the door open, sighing in relief when he sees the girl is gone. He can't deal with her taunting. He can't bare to hear her, his sweet little thing, being as cruel as the voices in his head. She can't just come in and tear into his deepest secret like a toddler destroying a cake. He's always had this idea that she would be sweet and subtle, but she's not. That night after their first meeting he had sat by his window watching her, wishing the revelation of her bold and unfiltered character would turn him off to her, would get her off his mind and out of his dreams, but it didn't. Every meeting only intensified his feelings as she became not only a pretty face but a witty adversary.

He trudges down the stairs, head hung low from shame. He can't bare to catch a glimpse of himself in one of the several gaudy mirrors the interior designer had put up.

He pauses in his step as something on the floor catches his eye: a little black shoe. He walks a few more feet and finds a hairbow, then another shoe until he's only a few feet away from his sofa. It's then that he hears a feint sound, like a tiny angel mindlessly humming to herself. Harry tightly clutches the shoes as he nears the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay y’all I’m not gonna lie.... I forgot about this fic. But I’m back now

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey it's me not updating Death of a Bachelor bc i'm a doosh. Anyway, if you'd like to read a generic het fic version of this (wherein Zayn is the neighbor and an OFC is the girl) I posted this story on wattpad under the same username and title as here.


End file.
